In 2009, Ireland was shaken by a wide-ranging, devastating report on the decades-long child abuse in Church-run institutions. One of the estimated 30,000 victims was Gerard Mannix Flynn, whose autobiographical solo play, “James X,” just opened off-Broadway.

To be blunt, it probably wouldn’t have landed here without the support of producers Gabriel Byrne — who also directs — and Liam Neeson. This is obviously a subject close to the heart of everyone involved, but the show’s mannerisms get in the way of its impact. We’re far from the movie “The Magdalene Sisters,” which depicted the exploitation of Irish little girls by nuns in a heartbreaking way.

The set-up here is that a survivor, now in his 50s, is waiting to testify in front of the commission that investigated the physical and sexual abuse. This fictional James X, largely based on Flynn, first appeared in the author/performer’s 1983 novel, “Nothing to Say.” Now, he’s holding a manila folder containing the details of his story.

Flynn doesn’t open the file, though, and goes free-form instead. Rather than ambling down memory lane, he hurtles at full speed, starting when he was safely in his mother’s womb, through the subsequent birth.

Most of the show is taken up with impressionistic recollections as James evokes a 1960s childhood marked by petty thefts and their consequences. At 11, he’s deemed “antisocial” and packed off to a so-called industrial school run by an order of Catholic brothers. “You’re a dodgy lad,” a judge tells him. A few years later, James will be declared criminally insane.

The trials Flynn endured as a child remain etched in his face. At times his features briefly go blank, as if he was overwhelmed by the past. His compact body is nearly always in motion, unable to find rest.

But the restless, stream-of-consciousness approach has a dulling effect. We know nothing specific about James’ siblings and his parents, and learn little about the system that chewed him up. We don’t understand the extent of what he endured until the very end, when he finally opens the folder.

The lack of details and the relentless inward focus make it hard for us to empathize. Worse, they make it hard to care.